Over the Edge
by lauTOre
Summary: When Charlie gives an interview about a recent case, Don is pissed. At least until the catastrophe. Some parallels to 4-11 Breaking Point, trash, melodrama. Don't like, don't read.
1. Before

Hey, you're brave if you're still willing to read this...  
This is the very first (complete) story I've _ever_ written, and although it's quite a while I still don't know what to think about it except of knowing that I'm not too happy about it... It's kitsch and melodrama and not really realistic, but I hope you still like it... at least a bit. Let me know what you think about it. If it's too bad I'm consequent enough to stop publishing it.  
One last thing: I'm afraid the titles might sometimes not match perfectly because I had to change the story title in the translation so that also these 8 ()() signs that (should) show a break in the story might be out of context. But for those being curious: the ('lying') 8 is a symbol for eternity.

**Disclaimer:** No, the characters are still not mine (I should change something about that...), only the story is.  
**Timeline:** mmh... let's say, in the middle of season 2

Thanks a lot to my beta Medraut!

**Chapter 1: Before**

Don Eppes turned off the television. The face of his brother, Charlie Eppes, disappeared. He just couldn't stand to watch this interview any longer. Although his brother had given only general and inexplicit information about their case, it had been information about a current case, and you didn't give such knowledge away to the media without permission. How often did he have to tell his brother not to spread his mathematical skills around like this after all? Even if it were only to avoid boring the spectators to death, because Don doubted that even one ordinary mortal had understood the explanations Charlie had just provided about their ongoing investigations. No doubt, Charlie was a genius – but when it came to explaining his mathematical achievements to the public, his brother sometimes had more similarity with a distracted professor. The next instant, Don inevitably wondered if there was a difference.

And why did Charlie always have to be in the foreground? Even in their childhood, in high school, he had been the high-flyer, with Don standing beside him like an idiot in spite of his average good marks. However, it was no – or at least no mere – jealousy that was making Don a little displeased, it was something different he couldn't define. Maybe just the resentment that Charlie was gloating over his fame while Don had to convince his AD again and again that they needed his mathematical skills for the solution of another case.

The ringing of his mobile pulled Don out of his thoughts. There were only two possibilities of who was calling – especially at this late hour. Either his colleagues because some progress had been made in their recent case, or Charlie, having solved yet another mystery in a miraculous way.

"Eppes," Don said.

The latter was the case. "Don?" Charlie's voice emerged the cell phone, lightly contorted. "I'm quite sure where they're going to strike the next time." It was about a series of robberies, already with multiple deaths, whose perpetrators were by no means easy to catch. "There are four businesses and banks that are more likely than others, indeed," he continued, "but they'll most likely choose the jeweler on Paxton Street."

"Okay. Thanks, Charlie," he briefly said, only to go on more harshly. "I've got to talk to you. Listen, I already said you a thousand times that you mustn't go to the public with your math stuff. You can't just give away information about current investigations! And today you were even on television! Can't you just shut up for once?"

Don had guessed Charlie would defend his behaviour; he had hoped that with a little provoked argument, his brother would realize that he had to pay attention, but he was wrong. On the other side there was silence. This time Charlie really did shut up.

"Charlie?"

No answer. "Charlie? Are you still there?"

Don was getting a little anxious. Maybe – no, certainly – he shouldn't have snarled at Charlie that harshly. He couldn't even remember now what had pushed him to his attacking choice of words. He just wanted to apologize to Charlie when he finally got an answer. "Yeah. Yeah. Sorry, what did you just say?"

Don stared at the black television in confusion and didn't know if he should react even angrier now or not. What the hell was going on with Charlie? However, the day had been too long to add thoughts about his kid brother's abstractedness. Yet, he was also too tired to argue with him. He hadn't been able to relax for quite a long time and today, there had been a work-load like hell once again. _Charlie probably knows that_, Don thought bitterly, although even he wasn't very convinced about it himself. _He probably only pretended not to hear me, hoping that I'll forget the whole thing. _"Doesn't matter," Don finally sighed. "Good night."

"…Wha-? Y – y – yeah… Yeah. Night, Don."

And with the fixed intention to talk to Charlie the very next day, Don went to bed.

8 ()() 8 ()() 8

The next morning, however, he initially did not do as he had planned. Around nine o'clock, Charlie entered the FBI headquarters. He looked a bit weary, but that was probably related to his current studies. Don had been able to figure that his brother had tackled something totally new and unexplored, but since he wouldn't understand it anyway he also hadn't bothered to ask further questions about it. For, if he did so – Don was certain – he wouldn't be able to escape Charlie's math lecture for at least two hours. And for such things Don currently neither had the time nor the nerve.

"I've prepared the group's possible targets here and the possibilities with which they're going to attack each establishment," Charlie started without wasting his time with a morning greeting to the team, who was now trying to muster up the intense concentration that they would need in order to understand Charlie's explanations. "The most probable one, however, is the jeweler on Paxton Street, although they could – if they're clever – hit the bank in Hollywood Square. At least that's what _I_ would do. The algorithm I've composed, however, indicates that it would definitely be the jeweler."

"And why do you think these criminals should stick to an algo-whatever?" Colby asked tauntingly.

"They don't stick to mathematical laws intentionally," Charlie explained with a certain impatience in his tone that the others had seldom noticed before in his exemplifications. Indeed, Charlie didn't sound as energetic as usual and not as eager to help the team with his mathematical skills.

"They think of the best target possible. And if you – as I did – identify what their best targets would be, it's not too complicated to figure out when and where the next time will be, as long as you have the previous target as a starting point." He turned towards Don: "Was that all or do you still need me?"

"How are they going to strike?" Megan asked in-between.

"The same way as always," Charlie retorted, but Megan was confused.

"But they've acted in different ways each time," she argued.

"Yeah, from an external point of view," Charlie started his explanation, still trying not to show his impatience or whatever else it might be. "But the central theme is still always there. They always try to do something unpredictable and that's exactly the thing that makes them predictable."

Looking at the uncomprehending faces in front of him, Charlie let himself be carried away to a more elaborate explanation. "Since the alarm systems of the targets of this group are rather complex, there are only few loopholes that the criminals can get through. Therefore, having figured out the next target, you just have to look at the alarm system. The second simplest approach mostly defines their course of action. They want to be clever by avoiding the simplest one and so apparently the most dangerous method in order to hit their victims in their least protected and most sensitive point, though they aren't clever enough to change their approach."

"So how are they going to act this time?" Don wanted to know. This time he was rather sure that he had understood everything, at least.

Charlie sighed. "Since the jeweler has his main focus at the salesroom, they're going to come through the ventilation shaft. The alarm will still go off, of course, but then the jeweler will probably turn his attention towards the back door once he's locked the front door."

"But…," Megan started, apparently thinking. "Isn't the back door the second lowest risk, then?"

"No, only in the jeweler's point of view. The back door to the storage room holds the biggest risk because it has to be covered by the front door as well. Is that everything?"

Feeling like he didn't understand anything anymore, Don nodded. That he had still wanted to talk to Charlie was something he had forgotten during the past thirty seconds.

It wasn't until that evening, when they all were about to go home, that a new problem had come up and Don grabbed his mobile.

"Eppes," a voice at the other end answered.

"Hi, Dad. Is Charlie with you?"

"Don! Nice to hear from you again. Charlie? No, he's not here."

"Not there? Where is he?"

"Somewhere in the mountains. Larry and he wanted to make some kind of measurements or tests. The things they do – you know those two. You could try his mobile, though."

"I've already tried it; it's turned off. But I'll come over to your place soon anyway. See you."

"Yeah…"

He hung up. The idea to drive home had not crossed his mind until the very second he had vocalized it. Maybe he could solve the problem himself. Charlie had probably taken notes. At least Don was certain that the boards in the garage would be scribbled all over, as usual.

Upon his arrival at home, however, he found that Charlie's scribbling still left him completely clueless. There were no clear hints, only numbers and variables. And since Don didn't find a clue what the whole thing might mean, he tried the mobile again.

"Eppes," Charlie's voice answered this time.

"Hi, you ever bother to turn on your mobile, huh?" Don greeted him dryly. "Where are you? Why did you turn off your mobile?"

"I'm on my way home. Only a matter of hours on this damned mountain road."

Almost reluctantly, a small smile snuck across Don's face. Listening to his brother's words, Don would probably be home quite soon if he were the one driving Charlie's car down that mountain. However, he knew that Charlie was an uncertain driver.

"Larry and I have made some tests," Charlie explained, "and the electro magnetic waves of the cells would have compromised our results. Why are you calling?"

"There's something that isn't clear to us. Why don't the robbers just turn off the alarm system?"

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"So, nothing comes to mind about that, huh, you little math-geek?"

Don didn't know why he said something like that. And the stress wasn't an excuse. It had simply escaped his lips before he had even been able to think about it. As the silence stretched between them, he was prodded by pangs of remorse.

"Hey, Charlie, I didn't mean that. Really. I'm just a bit… well, it's not important. So, could you tell me why they don't simply turn off the alarm system?" he asked again, in a more reconciliatory tone.

After a hesitant few moments, Charlie's voice answered again, hastily, as if he had just awoke from a brief sleep with a start. "I'm sorry, Don, what did you say?"

"Charlie, what's up? What's wrong with you? I'm asking you for the third time now why they don't just destroy the alarm system."

"Oh that," Charlie said, sounding quite disturbed. "Then they wouldn't be able to enter through the shaft anymore. If the alarm system collapses, the ventilation shafts close automatically. Then they would have to go through the front or the back door, and both would be of a higher risk with the alarm turned off than the ventilation shaft with the alarm turned on."

"And if the alarm goes off, the shafts don't close?"

"No, the system is coupled with the fire alarm and the gas detector, and there has to be guaranteed an escape route. It's all in the report I gave you."

Charlie sounded far too hackled up for Don to take it calmly. "Then you have to write your reports more comprehensibly, so that people who aren't math professors can understand them!"

"I could write them even more abstractly, so take them the way they are. I can't talk now. I've got…"

Charlie fell silent. Don could hear a loud rumble, followed shortly by an appalled gasp for breath from Charlie, a second rumble and a cracking noise, as if the cell had fallen to the ground. Then brakes squealed so thrillingly that Don felt a shudder running down his spine.

The squeal had fallen silent. "Charlie? Charlie, you alright?"

No answer. Then an ear-threatening bang. A rustle. A long whistling noise. The connection was interrupted.


	2. The Catastrophe

Wow... thank you so much for all the alerts and reviews! I hope I won't disappoint you. Still, don't hesitate to criticisize the story (...constructively). And now, please enjoy. I'm afraid it's a bit short.

**Chapter 2: The Catastrophe**

"Charlie? Charlie! Charlie, answer me!"

Don shouted into the receiver, although he knew that he couldn't be heard on the other end.

"Don! What are you doing?"

Don hadn't noticed the entrance of his father, who now stared at him steadfastly as he was standing there, shouting into the receiver. Slowly, he let the phone sink.

"What's up?"

"Dad, I… there's something wrong."

"What's wrong?" Alan's voice was now attentive and tense.

Don swallowed, but the lump in his throat remained. "Something has happened to him. I'm sure."

"Happened to whom? To Charlie?"

Don just nodded. He felt as though he would throw up if he did so much as open his mouth. His mind reeled. What should he do now? What _could_ he even do? "Dad, do you know where exactly they wanted to take those measurements?"

Alan shook his head. Don's mind sped clumsily until he finally reached a lightning idea: Larry! He had to call Larry! He had just begun to search hectically for the number when he was struck by the recollection that Larry didn't even own a mobile phone. But maybe he was already home? It was worth a try.

Don breathed a sigh of relief when Larry answered on the other end of the line. "Larry, thank God! Do you know where Charlie is?"

"Charlie? He stayed up on the mountain. He'd wanted to take another test series in order to explore the anomaly of energetically benefited particles in coherence with the energy at their disposal. Nonsense, if you ask me. You've got far too many variables to create a formula –"

"And where is he?"

Larry paused briefly before he answered. As always he sounded lightly confused. "I gather on his way home. You could call him…"

"Home _from where_, Larry?"

"Unfortunately, exact addresses are quite rare in the mountains. If you ask me, someone should change that. I have already started to create a system…"

Slowly but surely, desperate fury was rising inside of Don. His tension increased with every passing second. He closed his eyes. It was only with a great effort that his voice remained passably calm. "Larry – _where_?"

Again, Larry paused when he was interrupted for another time, and wondered. "How shall I describe it… Do you know the old stone quarry? The disused one? There nearby – maybe a hundred of meters more to the north – is where we took our measurements. But tell me, what exactly is –"

However, Don had already stopped listening. "Thank you, Larry," he said shortly, and hung up.

Turning, he noticed that his father – without stirring from the spot – had been watching him intensely. "So?" he asked.

"They were in the disused stone quarry. I'll drive the way up."

"I'll come with you."

"Dad, I don't know –"

"If it's such a good idea for me to go looking for my son?" Mr Eppes blustered. "What else am I supposed to do? Stay here and kick my heels? Forget it, Don."

8 ()() 8 ()() 8

The narrow winding road was dark and lonesome. Only two or three vehicles met them on the entire route. And none belonged to Charlie. They reached the stone quarry and found not one a single person. They searched the whole area and found some evidence that Charlie and Larry had been here, but no sign of Charlie himself. With fearful hearts, they began their slow return. Every fifteen minutes, they called at home, but no one picked up the phone. Charlie wasn't home.

"Stop! Wait a sec!" Mr. Eppes suddenly called out to his son. At the next shoulder, Don followed the order and the vehicle creaked in the grit next to the road.

"What's up?" he asked, but his father just answered: "Come with me." Don took the torch out of the glove compartment, and his father led him to a spot where the guard railing – as Don noticed just now – was gravely damaged.

"Do you think –" Don didn't complete his question. It was evident what his father feared. Now they also saw splinters of reflectors and tail lights and – another icy shudder ran down Don's spine – fresh tire tracks. Slowly, Don advanced closer to the steep abyss.

"Be careful!" his father called after him, though Don didn't hear him. The flashlight revealed, on the steep scarp beneath him, a completely destroyed car.

Charlie's car.


	3. After The End

**Chapter 3: After The End**

Don was still breathing in spasms. He had driven his father and himself home. Neither had spoken a word. Everything in Don's head was still so chaotically fragmented that, under other circumstances, he would have wondered how he had managed drive home safely. They now sat together at the dining-table. In reality, though, they were not truly sitting together, but instead each man was in his very own world of thoughts, hermetically sealed against each other.

Don still hadn't regained a clear mind, though it wasn't quite as bad as earlier, when he had stood at the cliff. Although he had never been afraid of heights, his head had been swimming when he had stared down at his little brother's car wreck. In hindsight, he even thought he had been swaying a bit until his father's strong grip on his upper arm had pulled him back from the ledge, until he had been able to stagger some steps back on his own. Don could still see Alan's gaze in his mind's eye, terrified eyes in a white face, the rapid heaving of his chest.

They had called the police in order to record the accident and save evidence, and had gone home. Before, they had been offered sedatives and medical treatment, however, they both had refused. They didn't want to numb their pain. They were already feeling numb anyway.

They neither spoke nor slept. Each one was wrapped up in his own thoughts.

It was so unreal! Don could have sworn that Charlie would rumble down the stairs in every instant and ask them why they were wearing such long faces. However, when he glanced at the stairs, there was only the trace of a human soul, no body.

Don knew that sometime the call had to come, that they had found Charlie, that someone had to identify him. He knew that it would be up to him to fulfill that horrible task. He couldn't let his father go through that. And after all, it was his own fault. His fault for causing his own brother's death. He had known that Charlie was a bad driver. And yet, he had spoken with him on the phone while Charlie was driving his car through such a dangerous area. Diverted him. And he had called him to reproach him. _Him. _And instead, Charlie had yet again helped them with a case. Don wondered if he had even one single time really thanked his brother for offering them his steady support, instead of consecrating himself to his own mathematical problems. Only once he had noticed how torn his brother had been because he didn't advance in his mathematical career, because he didn't find something new. Because he always stood by Don. Had stood.

And then the knowledge hit Don like a heavy punch to the stomach. Never again would he talk to Charlie, never again hear him laugh, never again pat him amicably on the back, never again argue with him, never again with his father lose to him in chess…

The numbness had lifted enough that Don could feel his eyes burn and the lonely tears rolling down his cheeks. Everything was over now. Why hadn't he understood earlier how short life was, and how fast destiny could decide to put an end to it? He was a damned FBI agent! It just as easily could have been he who had died without having told Charlie all the things that were now coming to his mind.

It was not he who had died, though, but Charlie. Why not him? And how in hell could he have let something like this happen to Charlie? He was struck that he would have found it so much more graceful not to mourn, but to be dead himself. It couldn't be, though. He couldn't let his father down. He had to remain strong. And he had to go further. He had to go on.

"Hey, Don!" Colby came rushing up to him with some papers in his hand. "We took another look at the jeweler's alarm system. By the way, did you talk to Charlie again about the air shafts?"

"Yes… yes, I did."

"So?" Colby was smiling mischievously. "Did our little math-genius admit that he must have been mistaken there?"

"No. He wasn't mistaken. He explained it to me… Well, he at least tried to. They are going to come through the air shafts."

Don had resolved to go to work that day. He couldn't have borne it any longer to sit silently at the dining table and lose himself in cheerless thoughts and memories. Besides, he didn't want these robbers to escape because he was sitting at home lethargically. He didn't want Charlie's last calculations to be for nothing. He didn't want everything to be for nothing.

"Don?" Don looked up and remarked that Colby must just have said something. "You listening to me? I asked you where Charlie is. Doesn't he want to explain his theories to us himself today?"

Don shook his head. "He… can't come today."

He couldn't say it. Not yet. The wound was still too fresh. The bandage had to remain on it for the time being.

"Hey Don, everything alright?" Colby asked with a hint of concern. "You look like a ghost."

Don considered only briefly if he should confide in Colby, but then he renewed the cool façade. "Just a bit tired. Come on, let's get to work."

The distraction served as a little help, although Don's mind was never fully on the case. Incessantly, Charlie's face haunted his thoughts, laughing, or eager with excitement, and in his mind, he was repeating again and again the words of their last phone call. And again and again, other memories were thrusting their way through, happy memories, sad ones… one thing, however, they all had in common: in all the memories, Charlie was there.

In the afternoon however, Don got a phone call that catapulted him completely back into the terrible reality.

"Don?" It was his father. "Don, the police called."

Don prepared himself for the worst. "They want us to identify him?" he asked, and he somehow managed not to show his anxiety too much.

"No, Donnie, listen. They say they've searched everything within a radius of one hundred meters. They didn't found him anywhere though. They think it's possible that Charlie may still be alive."

Don was silent.

"Don, are you still there?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Thanks, Dad. I'll come over tonight. See you."

He hung up. His mind was spinning. Was it possible? Or was he just living in a dream? How could-?

"Since when do you talk to your father about body IDs?"

Megan was standing in the door and seemed to be both confused and amused. "Don't you think it's enough to drag your brother into your work?"

Seeing the look that crossed his face after her last words, she realized that something was wrong. "Don, what's up with you? What happened?"

Don thought for a while. What had happened? "I don't know," he moaned, burying his face in his hands.

"Hey," Megan said softly, although surprised, and sat beside him, laying her hand on his shoulder. Such behaviour didn't fit Don at all. "What's up?"

Don breathed deeply. For all intents and purposes, he didn't want to talk with anybody about it. However, he couldn't hold up the facade much longer. If he could just confide in someone! With his cases, it wasn't necessary for him to talk to someone about it. He could cope with it very well himself. Rather, it was he who comforted the others. But this wasn't a case…

"It's about Charlie," Don finally said without lifting his head, and fell silent. He didn't know how he should explain it further. If he even _wanted _to explain it.

"What is it with him?" Megan asked hesitantly.

"I don't know!" It wasn't anger; it was desperation that raised his voice. Don took his hands from his face, flailing helplessly, but he still didn't look at Megan. "Apparently, he had an accident. We saw his car. It's completely totaled. But they didn't find him anywhere."

He let out a few heavy breaths until he stood and the words broke through. "I was on the phone with him! When it happened! I was shouting at him! You get it, Megan?" He peered into her stunned face. "_I was on the phone with him! It's my fault!"_

He was standing in front of her, gasping, as though he had just run a marathon. It took Megan several seconds to regain collectedness. Then, however, she was professional enough to do her job, both as a psychologist and a friend. "It's not your fault, Don!" she said hauntingly. "Listen? It's not your fault! You mustn't talk yourself into that! And besides…" She stalled, then continued, her voice lower: "It's not certain, is it? They haven't found him by now, right? So maybe he's still alive. You can't give up hope, Don!"

He didn't know how to respond, but the decision was taken off him, anyway, as David entered the office. "Hey, what's up here? A little small talk among co-workers?"

"Nothing's up," Don retorted automatically and nearly completely calm again. "You got something new?"

* * *

Well... hope you didn't find it too bad...  
Anyway, thanks for all the reviews and alerts until now! You're so kind!!!  
And to Dakota and all those who are probably disappointed/angry about Don's reaction: I never claimed the human mind worked rationally – at least in situations like that. And I don't think Don would still be angry after Charlie's death. Thanks for the review, though. It helps a lot to get to know different opinions.  
However, I feel the urge to repeat that this was/is my first story ever, so if you think that the characters are a bit (or a lot) out of themselves, please stay as polite as you have been until now…


	4. In Tyrannis

Thank you for the trust you have in this story. It means really much to me.  
Hope you enjoy.

**Chapter 4: In Tyrannis**

Charlie's head ached terribly. It took him a few moments to realize that _everything _ached. His eyelids were so heavy that he could not even open them, and so he decided to examine his surroundings blindly for now. As a first step, he wanted to stretch his arms. However, that somehow didn't work. Something was holding them back. The floor? Possible. Charlie was too dizzy to determine whether he was standing, or sitting, or lying, let alone where beneath and beyond was situated.

He tried his legs. They, too, weren't able to move an inch. _Hopeless,_ Charlie thought, _I seem to have to open my eyes anyway._

He had barely tried it when he already had to close them again. If it was because of the flashing light, or because of the feeling that a bee colony had nested in his mind while he was riding on a roller coaster, Charlie couldn't tell, but he could tell one thing: everything in front of his eyes was swimming. He was going to try again, he managed to convince himself, once he felt a little better, whenever that would finally happen. He felt worse than he ever had in his life. At least, he had figured one thing out – he wasn't standing. Had he been standing, he would have collapsed long ago. So there remained two other possibilities: sitting or lying. Or hanging. Why hadn't Charlie considered this possibility? All of a sudden, it seemed to him the most likely one.

Again, he tried to open his eyes and to hold them open this time. For several agonizing seconds, he would have loved to kill himself, if only to stop the dizziness and the nausea and the pain. But then he finally caught at least a somewhat lear glimpse of his surroundings.

He was in a room, for above his head, there was a ceiling with a single light bulb, and to three sides, he saw walls. Beyond that, however, he saw nothing else. The room was completely bare. Well, nearly completely. The only things that seemed to be present were Charlie himself and the chair he was sitting on. Well, he was sitting. One riddle solved, followed immediately by another one: Charlie looked down and found bonds wrapped around his body. So that was why he felt as though he were in a straight jacket.

Charlie would have liked to still ponder another question, the biggest one until now. He couldn't, though. As if he were standing beside himself, he sensed lucidly how his head was slowly sinking to his chest, how the weariness and the pain were overwhelming him again and making him sink into a fitful sleep, without giving him time to care about the solution of the third riddle: How did he get here?

Don looked at the clock. Half past eleven. Although his whole body longed for rest, his mind was still wide awake, ordering his body to walk up and down the living room like a furious lion in its cage. The police had said they would call when they found something new. But he hadn't heard a thing from them. Don's father had finally gone to bed. Don, however, could not; he had to do something. And if the only possible activity consisted in being ready for any possible call, then he'd take a stand next to the phone.

Eventually, his body won the battle against his mind, and Don sat exhausted at the dining-table, the phone lying next to him. He wouldn't drift off to sleep… he had to stay awake… he had to stay alert…

Slowly, nearly unnoticeably, Don's head fell to the table leaf, and he drifted off to a restless sleep at the same time as his brother.

Charlie came to his senses again, definitely feeling better than at his latest wake-up, although he tried vainly to remember when he had ever been more miserable. He opened his eyes, but yet again closed them again immediately. This time, however, it was not caused by pain, but because he remembered that he had still another riddle to solve. How did he get on an uncomfortable chair in the middle of nowhere? The mere question made him feel helpless and forlorn. He had to make the best of his situation, though.

He rummaged around in his memory. He had been in the mountains with Larry. Larry had driven back before him, and Charlie had taken another series of measurements which Larry had considered senseless. Therefore, he had gone home in his old-timer. In his mind's eye, Charlie saw the red tail-lights slowly becoming ever smaller until they disappeared behind a summit.

When darkness had finally brought severe coldness with it, he too had hit the road. And as he had been driving the winding mountain road, Don had called, and suddenly this truck had appeared behind him. Charlie had barely been able to spare a thought of admiration to the truck driver who was maneuvering his vehicle seemingly without difficulty between the rocks and the cliff, when fear had gripped him again. Over the past few days, he had been quite certain that somebody was following him. Multiple times, he had been nearly convinced that he had seen the same two strange men roaming around him. He hadn't told anyone anything, so that they wouldn't worry. And he also didn't want to involve Don in the matter, since he was already so stressed as he was. Besides, Don wouldn't have listened to him, anyway. He probably wouldn't have cared at all, considering how unnerved and angry he had been since Charlie's interview.

The truck had come nearer until it had finally rammed into Charlie. He had broken out into sweat and let the mobile drop. Then the truck had approached again and bumped into his car with full force, sending him speeding menacingly towards the guard rail. In one terribly long instant, he had managed to unclip his seatbelt, open the door and jump out of the vehicle. He had hit the asphalt hard, and heard half dazed, as if from a far distance, a crack and burst from metal when his car barreled down the cliff.

He had to get away from here, had to flee, but he couldn't move. And only a moment later, he had seen – or rather, felt – a shadow above him, and had gotten a heavy blow to his head.

He had to have been unconscious until he had awakened here. He didn't know how long he'd been without consciousness or if his kidnappers – for as it looked like he _had_ been kidnapped – had helped along with sedatives, didn't know what time it was or how long he had been here – wherever this 'here' might be located. However, at the moment all that didn't matter to him. Now, the question not how exactly he'd arrived here that was bothering him, but rather the problem of how on earth he was supposed to get out.

Desperately, he seized at his bonds, although he knew that it was of no use. The bonds cut deep into his flesh, but he stopped anyway, for a stinging pain had gone through his left forearm. He clenched his teeth. He must have cracked his arm jumping out of the car. He hadn't noticed yet because not only his arm, but everything else in his body hurt as well. It was impossible to get out of this prison with his own body strength. Charlie was condemned to inactiveness for the time being. At least, his body was. For his mind had work to do. Riddle number four was already waiting for him: what on earth did his kidnappers want from him?


	5. The Plan

**Chapter 5: The Plan**

"Don!"

A low, haunting voice crept into Don's consciousness, and he felt a warm hand on his shoulder waking him. Waking? But he couldn't be asleep. He had resolved not to fall asleep!

"Donnie, wake up."

Perturbed, he startled into wakening. Indeed. There, at the dining table, he had been lying. Sleeping like a child. How could that have happened?

He looked around. The hand on his shoulder had disappeared. Instead, he now saw his father preparing breakfast for the two of them in the kitchen.

"Have you been sleeping there all night?" Alan inquired. Don's heart twisted when he heard that he heard nothing in those words – his father's voice sounded toneless, listless, lifeless.

Don nodded, only to change the subject immediately. "You need help? What are you doing down here so early anyway?"

"Early? It's already half past eight. Actually, I didn't expect to find you still here. When I got up, I thought you'd be at work again already."

Don cursed quietly. "I'm sorry, Dad, I have to go."

"Of course," his father said resignedly. "I figure the idea to take a break for a couple days didn't occur to you, did it?" And then bitterness filled his voice. "But, why would it? After all, it's just your brother who's died."

Don noticed his father's voice break, but pretended not to have heard the painful words. After a short trip to the bathroom he left the house with a brief "See you tonight, Dad".

The door opened. Charlie lifted his head. The black shadow in front of him, closely followed by a second one, was gradually becoming a human figure. Well, more or less human, he would soon learn. The shadow spoke to him with a dangerously low, cold and clear voice: "Awake, Snow White?"

Charlie opted not to point out that in reality, it had been Sleeping Beauty who had fallen into her hundred-year sleep. Tensely, he awaited the things to come. What did these men want from him? They didn't wear masks, and that was dangerous, more for Charlie than for them. They didn't bother covering their faces, and therefore had to be sure that Charlie would never have the opportunity to describe them to anyone.

The two men advanced. They were both about middle-sized, seemed to have a passably well-trained physique, had dark hair and wore beards, on the smaller and younger one – perhaps in his early thirties – was a bushy and quite old-fashioned mustache, and on the taller one a dark three-day beard. Charlie estimated his age in the late forties. Though both were clad in expensive-looking suits, and without knowing exactly why, Charlie was reminded strongly of a ship's captain at the sight of the taller one.

"Doctor Charles Edward Eppes," the Captain began, stressing every syllable coldly and contemptuously.

Charlie nodded.

"So you're the fella who helps the FBI with this math stuff."

He nodded again.

"Can ya talk or are ya dumb?" the Moustache suddenly joined in.

Charlie was briefly tempted to run with a defiant answer, but he certainly did not want to anger these guys, so he simply said: "Yes."

How terribly raspy his voice sounded! He wondered how long it had been since he last ate or drank anything. Strangely enough, though, nutrition was one of his lowest priority needs at the moment.

"Well," the Captain rose to speak again, seeming slightly indignant due to the interruption of his confederate. So he was most likely the boss of the organization, or at least at a higher level than Moustache, depending on how many members this group had.

"Well, let's get right to the point. How do you think about changing sides a bit, Charles? Taking a closer look at the enemy camp? You'll see, it's not too different from your side."

For a few moments Charlie didn't comprehend anything at all. However, suddenly the meaning of the words hit him, like a physical blow to the face. "You… you want me to – to work for you?"

"You're getting things quickly." The Captain was smiling maliciously. "I already see what a good idea it was to collar you. But now we've fooled around enough. You're gonna help us. Last time they nearly caught us, and we'd like to lower the risk this time." That was true. At their last robbery, the FBI had almost been able to catch the criminals thanks to Charlie's calculations, but a stupid coincidence had gotten in their way. "And you're going to handle it for us, got it?"

And as it was a done issue, he added: "Well, I gather you get cracking on your task now."

Charlie didn't even take time to think about it. It was now clear to him that these men were the same that had committed the robberies and he sure as hell would not help them. "I won't do that!" he shouted as loudly at his opponents as he could, although he wasn't really satisfied with the result.

"Now, now, Charles," the Captain censured him, seeming far from being impressed by Charlie's weak attempt to rebel, and now that cynical smile crept back onto his face. "Didn't your mommy tell you that it is very rude to shout at other people?"

"Don't talk to me about courtesy, you villain!"

The Captain bowed down deeper towards him, and his voice was now horribly gentle and sharp at the same time. "If I were you I would take a better care of my choice of words. You surely don't want us to hurt you, Charles? No, you surely don't want that."

"I'll never help you! Never!"

"Watch your tongue, young fella. We'll give you one hour, time to think it over, but then we're going to resort to stronger tactics! And no matter what your decision will be at that point of time – you're gonna do what we demand."

And with a last derisive glance, the Captain left the room, closely followed by his confederate.

Charlie inhaled deeply. One hour. Even a minute ago he would have said he didn't need it. But now…

Of course he didn't want to collaborate with these criminals. However, where was the sense in resisting them if they were going to torture him? Charlie now sensed the twinge in his arm and the other aches in his body even more strongly than before, wondering just how much pain he would be able to bear. Would he, if they tortured him, work with them, just to end his pain?

But he couldn't! These creatures had already killed people! They were ruthless! Charlie would never forgive himself if people were harmed due to his weakness. _And if they'll kill you instead?_, a small and unbidden voice in Charlie's mind asked, but he put it aside. No, he wasn't going to help these delinquents with their dirty affairs.

What should he do, though? And what was disconcerting him even more – how would his decision change in the next fifty-seven minutes? Or did he only have half an hour left? He had lost any sense of time.

Charlie wondered what Don would do in his place. And the imagination gave him a pang that Don would probably prefer brave, selfless pain and death over any acting against his conscience. But this surely couldn't be Charlie's last resort? Would the end of this mean torture and death? And even if he died, would that help other people? The criminals would go on, after this incisive event maybe incalculably. And if Charlie collaborated with them, perhaps he would somehow have the opportunity to exert influence on them.

Just how long would this last, though? For how long would he have to mime the delinquent? For weeks? Months? Until he died…?

There had to be an alternative! A loophole, a saving solution… However, as hard as he tried, he couldn't find one. At every beck and call, he would have to bend these criminals' demands.

His thoughts swept back to Don. What were they doing now, he and his father? Did they already miss him? Did they even look for him? Charlie had no idea what time it was or how much time had passed since his last phone call with Don. Presumably, though, they had already realized that something was wrong.

Charlie became sick at the thought that they would sometime have to hear he was dead, that they had found his car. How he wished he could let his father and his brother know that he was alive, that he was doing well, given to the circumstances!

And then an overwhelming thought came to his mind: it was possible. He could let the world out there know that he was alive. And then, he could also ensure that these robberies took a change of course. It was risky, certainly. But it was the only opportunity he saw. In the beginning, of course, he'd have to be resistant to his kidnappers' plan. He was not to arouse suspicion. They had to believe that the pain made him join them. A plan was forming in his mind…


	6. End Again

**Chapter 6: End Again**

"I still can't believe it," Colby murmured. David shook his head in agreement.

Colby went on: "I mean, Charlie was so certain they'd strike this jeweler today. But nothing happened. In any of the possible shops."

"Where is Charlie, anyway?" David wanted to know. "He hasn't shown up here in an eternity. You'd figure, it'd be about time that it occurred to him that he's giving us bad information."

"Charlie didn't give us bad information!" Don flared up surprisingly. David and Colby looked at him thunderstruck, and Don realized that his reaction had to appear exaggerated to his co-workers. Damn it, why was he losing control over himself?

"There had to be something in the robbers' way. Or could there have been another robbery?" he brought the conversation back to more neutral ground with a demonstratively calm tone.

"No, but why should they have changed their method all of a sudden?" David remained insistent. "Charlie did explain to us that their plans, although seeming so irregular, still had regularity. So why didn't they strike today? Maybe Charlie's algo…whatever was just wrong about the time? Could he maybe explain it to us again? And anyway, where is he, Don?"

_They _were in the FBI headquarters. Normally, Charlie would have been with them after such an event – or rather, such a lack of event, for the robbery on Paxton Street hadn't occurred – and Don couldn't hide much longer that his brother had disappeared, if only because he couldn't stand any longer how the others were pushing Charlie around. Inevitably, he wondered again and again if he, too, had been so unfair to his little brother, and every time someone mentioned Charlie's name, Don felt an icy twinge in his heart. It was of no use, he had to tell them. The longer he avoided it, the worse it would get. Besides, Don didn't know how long Megan would be able to keep his secret. He knew that he was asking a lot from her by it. He had to tell them... now…

"I don't know where Charlie is," he answered, and he had to clear his throat, for his voice sounded very thin.

David and Colby glanced at each other incredulously. "You don't know where your brother is?" Colby reaffirmed with one eyebrow raised.

Don swallowed and closed his eyes. Then he said lowly – and it took an immense effort to verbalize it: "He's missing."

For six endlessly long seconds, there was silence.

"What? Missing?" Colby asked, while David stared at Don, his mouth half open, and Megan looked only at the table in front of her, her lips tight. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"He was in an accident," Don explained, his voice tired and heavy. "In the mountains. His car is a wreck. But no sign of Charlie himself."

David and Colby stared at him stunned. They seemed unable to utter a single word, as if the horror had made them forget how to form sounds. The two FBI agents were shocked.

"Can we… do anything for you?" Colby finally asked.

"No," Don retorted decidedly. They had already done enough for him. Just the fact that he'd been able to tell them everything and that he no longer had to lie to them without reproach made him feel better.

- - -

The door opened again. Instinctively, Charlie looked up and saw Moustache and the Captain enter with their features tensed in expectation.

"Well, let's get right down to the point," the Captain began in a businesslike tone. "Will you help us voluntarily or do we have to force you?"

"You won't be able to force me!" Charlie shouted demonstratively passionately. He could just as well be their marionette now; but later, it would be he who'd be the puppet master.

"Deplorable," the Captain sighed, bored. "Really deplorable. Well, we'll have to opt for less gentle methods, then." He turned towards his confederate, and his voice became immediately cold and sharp. "Nick, get your things here."

And without another word, Moustache left the room, returning after a while with an array of horrible instruments.

Charlie would have liked to turn away his gaze, but he didn't want to show any sign of weakness. Probably, he thought bitterly and anxiously at the same time, they'd see his panic soon enough anyway.

Charlie stared at the grey wall in front of him and tried not to mind the machines Nick was now adjusting. "Ready," he said shortly after a few minutes.

The torture began.

Later, Charlie couldn't tell what exactly had happened how and when. But he knew that they had started with the whip. "Primitive, but very effective," the Captain had said with a smirk on his face, and Charlie had wondered how on earth it could possibly happen that human beings degenerated that way. Sometime later, there was the taser. And not to be forgotten were the numerous other, rather screw-like apparatuses for which Charlie didn't even have a name. And eventually they'd come with the brands, as if the taser hadn't been enough, and had added other burns. On his chest… the soles of his feet… his back…

After an eternity they had stopped the torture. Charlie had been yelling with pain.

"Does it hurt, my dear Charles?" the Captain asked notably gently. Charlie would have given nearly everything so that he'd stop, that Moustache would stop, that everything would stop…

"Why… why didn't you just kill me?" he coughed, moaning, with desperation in his voice.

"Oh, believe me, son, we intended to. But at the last moment I told myself: Hey, if the boy can help the FBI, then he can help us as well. Be glad, otherwise Rambo would have plowed you down with his little truck. But now we're waiting for your decision."

Charlie had little difficulty putting his plan into action and ending the torture. "Yes," he coughed. "I'll do it."

- - -

"Eppes? I've got to talk to you. Come into my office."

Don was quite surprised that his supervisor, Andrew J. Startler, ordered him into his office. "What is it?" he asked after they both had taken a seat.

"I'm afraid I have to tell you that you and your team are off the robbery-murderer case," he asserted to Don outright.

"_What?! _...Uh, I beg your pardon, Sir, but… _why?_"

In the AD's eyes, there was nearly an expression of compassion, though it was difficult to tell whether it was due to the tragic events or Don's lack of understanding. "Well, even you couldn't have missed that after the disappearance of your brother two weeks ago" – _he knows_, the thought crossed Don's mind, and at the same time he wondered why it didn't surprise him – "the robberies have become increasingly ingenious, and it had been impossible for your team to hunt down the perpetrators."

"Well, we've got a man missing from the team."

"That's also my opinion of the latest events, though different from how you mean it. You certainly haven't thought about the possibility by now that your brother could not only have left your team, but also could have even joined the opposing one?"

The words took some time before they finally came through to Don, and still he wasn't sure that he had understood Startler correctly. If Startler really thought what Don thought he thought… no! That'd be too egregious!

"I think you've got me. Do you?"

Slowly, Don shook his head. "No… No, I don't think so."

"Oh, come on, agent! Are you really not able to see it? Your brother disappears in a very mysterious way, and few days later, the criminal gang he'd worked on recently is more successful than ever."

Every doubt was eliminated now. Don's fury surged up and his voice was welling up with every word. "You really want to tell me that my brother faked his own death in order to change sides?"

"Calm down, agent, please. You cannot just dismiss the facts."

"These aren't facts; they aren't even indications!" Don now shouted at his supervisor. "And if you don't stop defaming my brother at once, then –"

"Be quiet, Eppes!"

And indeed, Don was quiet for once. He knew that it had been a mistake to go postal that much.

"Eppes, I know that you're an excellent agent and that's the only reason why I let your team work the case at all. You should also keep in mind that you were only been allowed on the case because I had faith in you. You have to understand, though, that not only because of the press it wouldn't be wise to go on letting you work on this."

"But I _can't _stop! Don't you understand?"

"I think I understand very well. I'm hereby suspending you – not because I want to; you're one of our best agents; but because I consider it necessary – and I strongly advise you take a few days off and to inform us about anything you find out about your brother."

Don resisted the temptation to shout into Startler's face that Charlie was dead, and he left the office with the burning feeling that Startler hadn't understood anything at all.


	7. A Suspicion Is Substantiated

**Chapter 7: A Suspicion ****Is Substantiated**

Don couldn't remember exactly where he had been for the remaining hours of the day. He had hardly realized that he'd subconsciously gone to the places where he'd often been together with Charlie, as if they'd be able to shed light on the truth. All he remembered was the fact that he'd come home very late in the evening and that, while opening the door, he'd awakened his father who had drifted off to sleep in his favorite armchair. Drowsily, Alan sat up a bit. "Charlie? Is that you?"

Don didn't know what to answer. "No," he finally returned, slightly unsettled and anxious. "It's me, Dad."

His father turned his head and looked to his face. "Of course. I'm sorry, Donnie. I don't know what… I'd been dreaming. Apparently I forgot for a moment."

Don struggled with himself as to whether he should share the new suspicions with his father. But he couldn't keep it secret any longer. "Some folks at the bureau think it's possible that Charlie's still alive," he finally began without looking at his father, still not convinced that he was doing the right thing. Mr Eppes sadly shook his head.

"The bureau," Alan mumbled depreciatively. "They don't know the first damned thing. So where should Charlie be in their opinion? Don, come on, he'd have gotten in touch with us long ago if he were still alive."

Don was silent. His father, apparently misreading this silence, went on: "Listen, you shouldn't expect that he'll come back. I know that it's hard. But we also have to be ready to let go."

And for an instant, Don wished his colleagues were right. His brother might be a criminal, he, Don, wouldn't care. The only thing that would really matter is that he'd still be alive. His father was right, though. It was impossible. Or at least, the probability converged on zero, as Charlie would phrase it. It was of no use get his hopes up.

8 ()() 8

The next morning, the doorbell rang. Don opened it and found some of his colleagues standing before him. Most of them he knew by name. Nevertheless, only few offered greetings. They shoved an administrative notice right under his nose. A warrant. For the house. And for Charlie's garage, of course. They were looking for evidence of his participation in the robberies. As laughable as Don wanted to find it, when his father got wind of the whole thing it became a disaster.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he shouted at no-one in particular. "How dare you to suspect my son? Don, tell your co-workers to stop that!"

Don was grimly silent, though. It was of no use, and he knew it. Furious, he realized how the feds didn't pay attention to his father shouting, like they always did searching the apartment of a suspect.

"What do all these numbers mean?" one of the agents called Wagner wanted to know of Don, who was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed in front of his chest, but Don just shrugged. "No idea."

"Oh, come on, Eppes, you can't make me believe that you don't even have a guess!"

"How should I possibly know? Charlie was one of the foremost mathematicians in the United States, if not in the whole world. Are you seriously asking me to understand his thoughts?"

Reluctantly, Wagner turned towards one of his subordinates, calling across the room: "McPherson, we need somebody who's well versed in that stuff!", and McPherson pulled out his mobile. "Scott, take photos of the chalkboards!"

8 ()() 8

After the agents had finally left with a mass of boxes full of papers, Don leaned exhausted against a wall in Charlie's garage, letting himself sink down to the floor. His father had already withdrawn long ago. He had been unable to stand how the agents had unsympathetically rummaged about in the belongings of his dead son.

Don let his gaze wander across the garage. It seemed strangely foreign to him, as if the feds had desecrated it and stolen its charm by their unbidden invasion. He looked at the boards covered in scribblings. It seemed so unreal to him that it had been Charlie who had written all these things; they were so close, so real… and Charlie so far away…

With these calculations, Charlie had tried to assess the criminals and foil their plans, and Don was certain that he'd found out things that would be very helpful to the current investigators. It had to be possible somehow to bring these things to daylight again! Indeed, his co-workers were already looking for a mathematician, but Don doubted that this would afford them much progress anyway. The others firmly believed that Charlie had changed sides anyway. The fact that he'd had the highest security clearance and that both the FBI and the NSA and so many other agencies had flagrantly taken advantage of the situation was something they apparently couldn't remember anymore. Don saw the likelihood that his co-workers would find the perps diminishing ever further.

And besides, this mathematician would have no idea of Charlie's personal abbreviations; he would have never got to know him, he wouldn't understand him, and wouldn't understand his thoughts. Nevertheless, Don was deeply troubled at the thought that they would never be able to solve this case, that Charlie's discoveries would be lost forever. Was there really nothing he could do?

And then the revelation zipped through him like a flash.

8 ()() 8

"Yes?" the voice said at the phone.

"Hi, Larry, it's me, Don. Listen, I need your help."

"My help? What… is it about?" Larry asked hesitantly.

"Charlie's last calculations. Please come over here at once." And without waiting for an answer, Don hung up.

Half an hour later, Larry parked his old vehicle in the Eppes' driveway where Don was already waiting impatiently. "Come in," he greeted him curtly, "and take a look at the problem."

Despite his eagerness, Don noticed that Larry was very silent. And of course he could guess the reason. At once, he felt sorry for Larry. He had called the day after Charlie's accident from the CalSci because Charlie hadn't appeared at work. When Don had told him the story, Larry hadn't said anything for quite a long time. Back then, on the phone, he hadn't been able to really solace him. Although due to his work he often had to talk to the bereaved, he hadn't been able to find the right words at that moment. Now, though, the circumstances were more advantageous.

"Hey, Larry… how are you?" He couldn't think of something better at the moment.

"Great," Larry answered, too toneless to even sound sarcastic.

"Listen," Don began, laying his hand on Larry's shoulder, "what has happened is awful. But-"

"It's my fault," Larry interrupted him abruptly.

Don violently shook his head. "You can't think that, Larry, you hear me? After something like that, everybody says it's his fault, but they're barely ever right," he said, thinking of himself.

"No, listen, Don," – Larry's voice sounded half an octave higher than normal, but other than that he was talking quite calmly, as if he'd already come to terms with his fault a long time ago – "I hit the road before him. I left him alone up there. If we had left together –"

"Then maybe you'd be both dead now. Come on, Larry, what would it have changed if you'd driven one after another? You can't drive yourself crazy because of that. It's not your fault. Charlie'd say the same thing."

Larry didn't answer.

"Larry, you believe what I'm saying?" Don said urgently. It was important that Larry realized that he didn't have any responsibility for the terrible incident.

"I'll think about it," Larry evaded, though it was enough for Don as a start. "Let's let it go now, okay?" Larry requested. "I guess you wanted me to take a look at Charlie's calculations about the robberies?"

"Yes. I'm sure you can help the team investigating."

They went into the garage. Silently and nearly motionlessly, Larry examined the extensive calculations for several minutes. "It's about the robberies, right?" he ascertained.

"Yeah."

"And Charles was told to find out where, how, and when they would strike the next time."

"Exactly," Don agreed eagerly. They finally had a plan!

Larry nodded, lost in his thoughts, and went on after a while: "Charles has developed an algorithm here. It is based on the currently known data from the robberies and on the security measures of the businesses in question. Not a bad idea at all. You couldn't explain the universe with it, but for the profane issues in the sphere we know, it's certainly enough. He has also detected where and how the next assault would take place. However, that would have already happened two days after… well, after this thing happened. And the attack didn't occur until five days later, right?"

Don nodded, thinking inevitably about how math geniuses such as Larry and Charlie had problems using language to express anything. 'This thing' was a rather broad paraphrase for Charlie's accident, Don thought.

"The attack would also have occurred somewhere else."

"Right. Charlie said they would strike at a jeweler, and instead, the break-in was at a bank in Hollywood Square –" Don paused. Something about the wording shook his memory. Back then, when Charlie had explained his calculations to them, hadn't he said something about this bank? Yeah… there had been something… But how was everything connected?

Larry interrupted his train of thoughts, continuing: "However, this can also be a coincidence, although the probability for such an event is diminishing low. To know if Charles' algorithm is correct beside that, I'll need more information. I have to consider everything: the location, the employees, the product or the service being offered in the respective business, the security measures… Without the necessary data, my system isn't complete."

With a twinge in his heart, Don realized that Larry was talking exactly like Charlie.

8 ()() 8

Later in the evening, Megan brought the copies of the files about the robberies with her. She hadn't been particularly enthusiastic, but when Don had made clear it to her that the current investigating team was focusing too much on Charlie as the manipulator, and that the real perpetrators would escape them if they didn't do something, she had surrendered.

"This is going to take a while," Larry murmured with a glance at the pile of files she was handing him.

"Charlie always managed to find those things out within a few hours," the words slipped Don's lips, and he had to atone for them at once, for Larry retorted with a sudden coolness: "But I am not Charles," and turned in silence towards his work.

Don, too, was silent. Any apology would have seemed inane, even to him. He knew that Larry was doing his best, and he also did it well. However, Larry was mainly physicist. And he was right: he wasn't Charlie.

Larry worked the whole night without eating, drinking or sleeping. It wasn't until the next day that he had to admit that he just couldn't destroy his body like this. But eventually, the following evening, he was able to present a result.

"I have verified everything," he explained to Don. "Up to a certain point, the information of Charles' algorithm is completely correct. Since… well, since this thing, though, they deviate from the robberies in an irregular manner."

"And was does that mean exactly?"

"That means that in actual fact, I'm not able to predict where they'll strike next."

"In actual fact?"

Larry sighed deeply, hedged for a while, apparently searching for the right words, and then asked seemingly without context: "Do you know what our measurements in the mountains were about?"

"No, Charlie hadn't told me anything." _And I hadn't asked_, Don added in his mind.

"Well, we wanted to explore the… let's say the regularity of irregular events. It seems to be that every irregularity proceeds in a regular manner, even if it is difficult to detect. It is a bit like a ride in an unfamiliar area with multiple different road signs. You cannot always give the destination, but you can tell the direction. Actions are always restricted by some factor. For instance, these robbers won't suddenly strike in San Francisco, Fresno or San Diego. During one of our last chains of measurements, Charles and I discovered a formula for processes that seem to be irregular at first, second and third glance, but that still are built-on logically in some way. In this pattern move the flames of a fire, or – as I think – the moons around their planet. And if I now apply this formula to the robberies…" He fell silent.

"Yeah?" Don asked urgently.

"If I apply them with the robberies, then I can detect compliances."

"What do you mean?" Don asked, uncertain if he wanted to hear the truth.

Larry seemed agonized because Don didn't understand. "Don, as it seems up to now, the robberies are constructed in this formula. There are also other theories considering the movement of the fire, but here, they have utilized our very formula. And this is one that right now only Charles and I do know."


	8. Faith

**Chapter 8: Faith**

They had given Charlie a sheet of paper, a marker and a cheap hand calculator. Laughable. These guys had no clue. In order to develop a sophisticated system, Charlie would have needed at least a calculator with a graphic display unit and triple the memory space, at best of course a computer with the necessary software. And about twelve packs of Aspirin.

When Charlie had awoken after the torture from the dormancy caused by the sleeping pills, they had immediately begun urging him to work. He hadn't been able to. The pain had been taking its toll and he hadn't been able to think clearly anymore. When Moustache had grabbed his instruments again, however, Charlie's thoughts had cleared far enough to make up his mind. And once he had started, the math helped him forget while his surroundings and, to some degree, even the pain, if only for a little while.

Fortunately, he hadn't needed to develop a system at first. The necessary formula was something he knew by heart. That alone filled nearly the whole sheet, and Charlie had soon begun to write on the walls. He preferred it that way, anyway. You just had a better picture of the whole thing. Even if at first he was only able to utilize the lower parts because he couldn't stand.

He had not yet seen the outside of the four walls enclosing him, but at least they took off the bonds for much of the time, so that he could do his calculations. Only at night or when they made an attack or left the house did they tie him up again, so that their "cash cow", as they tauntingly called him after their first coup due to his help, could really not escape them. They restricted his food and drink to a minimum, but at least they were keeping him alive. He had learned to appreciate what he did have, since they didn't torture him anymore. Well, since they hardly tortured him. If he were ever being too slow or too particular for them, they restarted the ordeal. Or when the Moustache got too bored, at least as it seemed to Charlie. So far, though, that hadn't happened more than three or four times. Charlie, then, would only be able to look forward to later, when they would leave him alone again, bound in his chair. Even if he at times didn't believe that there would be a 'later'.

At least they had now, having seen how extensive his calculations were, provided him with multiple piles of paper and a hand-calculator with sufficient function. And of course – for that was indispensable – the information about the targets and their alarm systems. As far as Charlie was able to discern, Moustache had somehow managed to hack their operating systems.

His 'accomplices' were satisfied with his work. And he was too. Until now, he had always maintained that nobody would be harmed because the risk for the robbers had always been very low. At least they hadn't mentioned to him that greater damage would have been done. And Charlie had kept the risk for all involved as low as possible. Still, the assaults were seemingly unpredictable. He had taken care of that. Slowly, though, it began to grow serious. It was now much more complicated. It was going to happen sometime.

He now had helped them with three attacks; the last one had been today and they were now celebrating upstairs. Indeed, nothing had happened until now, but with every assault the risk increased that someone may have been harmed. And if that happened, then it would be his fault, Charlie's…

Something had to happen. Soon.

8 ()() 8 ()() 8

Don was staring at Larry, stunned. "What do you mean?"

"Don, please, calm down." Larry was feeling evidently uneasy. "I'm only trying to say… I can't say it with certainty, there were only two attacks, but –"

"And with only that you're so quick to suspect Charlie! Besides, it's three, not two; Megan just called."

"Listen, since this thing, Charlie's algorithm doesn't fit anymore, even though it had always been right before. And that raises questions, of course. I'd also dare to say that the new formula will fit for this third assault. Isn't that just a bit suspicious? And besides," Larry went on, still very tentative, "it can't be a coincidence that Charles' and my formula fits for these recent attacks. There are simply too many coincidences, Don. Don't you see that?"

His eyes glistening with fury, Don stared angrily at Larry. How could Larry say something like that? How could he even _think_ that Charlie –? No, the thought was too preposterous to even consider it. How could Larry even come to consider such a thing? And someone like that called himself a friend…

"Out," Don finally said quietly, only to become louder at once: "Get out of here!"

"Don –"

"Out of this garage!"

Sadly, Larry shook his head. "Do you send away everyone who is trying to help you?"

Don's answer was a shout. "I send away anyone who calls Charlie a criminal!"

"But that's not at all what I said!"

Don was too perplexed to retort. "What's that supposed to mean?" he finally asked.

"Don, don't you see anything anymore? Assuming that this formula is our formula, and assuming that Charlie has also done the calculations for the attacks – it still by no means indicates that he's been doing this voluntarily!"

Don began to think. This theory opened up some totally new possibilities. They even allowed room for a faint ray of hope. Yes, this was possible. It would explain so much. But weren't they just hoping for too much? How had Don's father phrased it, you had to be able to let go? But then again, where was the body…

"So you believe –," Don carefully began.

"I think it's the most likely possibility," Larry cut him off with a pleasantly warming conviction. But still…

"Isn't this a bit far out? I mean, Charlie is captured or whatever you're imagining, and the kidnappers just so happen to realize that he could help them with their robberies?"

Larry shook his head, puzzled. "You're surprising me a bit, Don. Don't you want to see all the possibilities? I consider it very improbable that Charles has coincidently become the victim of a kidnapping. The way you described your phone call it would be a very uncommon method for a random kidnapping. And didn't you say he'd been behaving rather strangely recently?"

Don nodded. He hated himself for not having observed it until afterwards. When it had been too late. Why hadn't he noticed it earlier?

"So, there you go. Charles probably noticed that someone was breathing down his neck. And his kidnappers just waited for a convenient point in time without witnesses."

Don nodded without really realizing it. Yeah… it all was making sense…

"What have you been doing down here this whole time?" A voice pulled him back into reality. It was his father, looking around in the garage critically. "You didn't change anything, did you?"

"Well, that was inevitable…," Larry tried, but Mr Eppes started to rant.

"Charlie's gone for just two weeks and you're already taking his garage apart!"

"Dad, we realized that Charlie might not be dead."

It seemed to Don as though his father was staring directly into his eyes for an eternity before saying in a cold voice: "I would have thought you would know your brother better than that."


	9. Things Come to a Head

Thanks to all who still read this fic, especially to those who comment! I'm really glad to see that there are at least some who (seem to) like the story!  
Please enjoy.

**Chapter 9: Things Come to a Head**

It took Don a while to even register what his father had just said. And then a few more seconds until he realized that he was wrongly snarled at. No, he didn't deserve that! He didn't deserve how his father was treating him!

"Dad," Don called after his father, who had turned away from them, disappearing towards the house. "Dad! You don't understand –"

"Oh yes, I understand very well!" Alan tramped back into the garage. "How'd you figure out that Charlie's still alive, after all? Did you calculate it? Well, then there has to be a little miscount!" Alan's voice oozed sarcasm, then turned completely earnest again. His anger wasn't reduced, though. "Be glad that your mother can't hear how you're talking about your brother!"

Don ignored the comment. He didn't want a guilty conscience now. He didn't want to lose this feeling of hope. "Dad, I know that Charlie isn't a criminal!"

As did his son, Alan seemed to understand nothing at first. "And then what –"

"Assuming that Charlie was kidnapped and that the kidnappers want to abuse his knowledge about the attacks…"

"I'd even assert that the robbers themselves were the ones who kidnapped Charles," Larry interjected. "They had the necessary basics about the alarm system and their possible targets."

Don continued. "So, if they kidnapped Charlie and they've been forcing him to do these calculations for them, that would explain why we couldn't catch them. 'Cause if Charlie doesn't want someone to see through his game, no one will."

"But… you've got… haven't you… did you find a formula or whatever or not?"

"Yeah, we did, but only because I called Larry. Nobody else would have figured it out in the foreseeable future, because Charlie and Larry are the only ones who know this formula."

"But Charlie must have known that you'd ask Amita or Larry for help," Alan objected. He was totally calm again, but still very confused.

Also Don couldn't find an answer on this one, but did conjure a counter-question. "Well, how else would you explain how we still haven't found him after two weeks?"

Alan sighed. No, he too had no answer, although even beyond his sleepless nights he brooded over how and why it all could have happened. "And what do you plan to do now?" he finally asked.

"Well," Larry began hesitantly, "I think I should check the latest attack first, to find out if my theory is correct and to get new starting-points for my algorithm. If I can convince Amita to help me I should be able to tell you how, when and where they'll strike next by tomorrow evening."

"Thank you, Larry," Don sighed sincerely, and threw his arms around him. "You're the best!"

Larry smiled faintly. "You'd better not let Charlie hear that."

8 ()() 8 ()() 8

Charlie lay backwards on the floor, calculating. He turned on his side to write. It wasn't particularly comfortable, but since his space was quite limited to the nearly-covered four walls and he didn't have a table, he had no other opportunity. At least he could stretch his legs before they tied him at the chair again.

He wished it had happened during the last assault. He desperately, painfully wished finally to get out this place, and to see the sun again. Life didn't fulfill his wishes anymore, though. But still Charlie could continually rejoice in the overwhelming and simple fact that he was alive.

He checked his calculations. In this next attack – another bank this time – human lives were at risk. Many human lives. He couldn't do anything about it, though. Sometime Larry would have figured out that it was their formula. And then they would intervene. Certainly. They would figure it out. Maybe they already had.

Charlie hoped imploringly that the team had picked up his clue. When he had talked about the jeweler's on Paxton Street as the next target, he had also mentioned that he would have done it differently. He would have hit the bank in Hollywood Square. And when he had been forced to act, he had remembered his words and hoped that the team would remember as well.

With a sudden surge of panic Charlie imagined what would happen if they didn't get it. It would go on and on, indefinitely. But he surely wouldn't have to help these criminals with their misdoings forever? No, that wasn't possible. It couldn't be.

No, certainly not. Eventually the robbers would have stolen enough money. And then they wouldn't need Charlie anymore. They would dispose of him. _Well, at least better than to go on as 'cash cow',_ Charlie thought bitterly, and he noticed that his throat was tight.

But then, what would happen when everything was over? When these guys were finally caught? Charlie would, no doubt, have to take responsibility. And he didn't want it any other way. He wanted to make amends for what he had done.

But what would his friends say? And his father and Don?

Charlie longed so much to see them again that he had hardly given it a second thought. Would they even want to continue to have dealings with him at all? Even if he was a criminal? Even if he had helped these villains? Maybe the criminals had already killed someone without bothering to tell Charlie about it?

Then he would be a murderer.

8 ()() 8 ()() 8

Don was relieved to see that Amita didn't cry, although her eyes were reddened and glassy. She pulled herself together, though, and along with Larry, she started to work with ardor. And indeed, when evening came, they had a result.

"A little bank in one of the suburbs," Amita told him. "They're planning to raid it."

"Raid?" Don was confused and anxious at the same time. "Are you sure? I thought by now they were looking for the method with the lowest risk."

"Not necessarily. They just stick to the formula. It does yield the lowest risk, but it is still possible that their attacks could bear a bigger risk if they behaved differently."

"Yeah… Charlie said something like that, too," Don remembered.

"So why do you ask?" Amita suddenly spat, but Don didn't take it personally and pretended not to have heard her. He knew that Amita would regret her testy behavior later, and he didn't want her to blame herself for these outbursts. Since she knew that Charlie was probably still alive, she was no longer so downhearted, but very tensed instead. It made no sense to try to console her right now.

"And when?" Don asked instead.

"Wednesday," Larry answered. "Probably around eleven o'clock in the morning."

"Then we'll be there. Thank you, guys. I think it's time to help the investigating team along."


	10. It Gets Serious

Thank you for all the alerts and thanks a lot for the reviews, including the criticism! My next story will be more detailed, I promise…  
I hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 10: It Gets Serious**

So far everything had been quiet. That was little comfort, though, for it was hardly half past nine and the criminals weren't due to strike for another hour and a half. Still, since eight o'clock, the team sat at the ready in civilian cars, with trucks positioned in precaution on either side of the bank where the attack was predicted to occur.

The team. Not Don's team. And Don wasn't there either, despite his fervid attempts to sway his supervisor. His argument that without his information they would have known nothing about this next attack had been of no avail. Instead, Startler had ordered him to keep a generously admeasured distance from the bank. And since Don by no means wanted to cause a disturbance and possibly even allow the criminals to escape, he resigned himself to obey the order. He wouldn't be at the scene.

Many times, he felt the urge to burst out of the house and drive to the bank. He would not jeopardize the mission by any means, though. He had already done enough damage. Still, he had to do something, something to undo the past, to right his mistakes…

He had known it. Damn it, he had known that stupid interview of Charlie's would lead to no good! And still he hadn't done anything. He should have known what would happen! He had looked after his brother so many times before! Why not this time? Why on earth had these criminals struck at the very moment when Don had turned his eyes from Charlie? And just because there had been so much trouble at work… like always… and if something happened to Charlie…

Don's thoughts had spun in circles for days, and he didn't know how to escape them. Again and again they found their way to Charlie, in this unknown place, and in Don's absolute certainty that it was his fault. He hadn't looked after Charlie and they had kidnapped him. It was as simple as that.

Don knew that nobody thought him guilty. But that didn't change anything.

Ten o'clock. One hour left. Don stared at the kitchen clock, certain it was broken. He had never seen time move so slowly.

Half past ten. Thirty minutes left.

Five to eleven. Was it happening now, at this very moment?

He resisted the tumescent urge to run out of the house and rush to the bank. The second hand seemed to stand still. And with every second Don waited for the call, the call that the FBI had caught them.

Five past eleven. Now they must already have struck. Ten past eleven. Still nothing. A quarter past eleven. Where was the call?

At half past eleven, Don couldn't stand it any longer. He reached for the telephone.

"FBI, this –"

"Hey, Megan, what's going on?"

"A good morning to you too, Don."

"Yeah, morning," Don said impatiently and continued without pause. "Megan, what's going on at the heist? Why doesn't anybody tell me anything?"

Megan sighed heavily.

"What?" Don asked further hastily.

"Don, they botched it. The robbers came on motorcycles this time. When they saw our people they fled. It was obvious that they were the criminals and out people went to follow them, but the perps were able to escape through narrow alleys that we couldn't fit through. They're gone."

Don was silent. "How long have you known?" he then asked with strained calmness when he'd processed the information.

"They just came in. Warren, the leader of the team, is in Startler's office now. Startler is really going apeshit on him."

"Serves him right," Don murmured. How in hell had this Warren let these guys escape? Don felt a burning desire to head to headquarters so he could strangle the man.

"Don, you still there?" Megan's voice drifted to him from the receiver.

"No," Don said laconically and hung up. An instant later he regretted it, but he wasn't about to call Megan back now to apologize. He was simply too furious.

These idiots had really let the criminals escape even though they had known the whole plan! They had blown their best chance ever! And who knew what that meant!

The wonderful feeling of eagerness and hope that had built up inside Don over the last few days was gone with a blow. They had been so close, so close to catching these guys and maybe even finding Charlie!

Don was now so certain that Charlie was with the robbers that the helplessness of feeling unable to do anything had become painful. Now, his little brother would have to wait yet another agonizing and seemingly eternal expanse of time until someone could free him from these criminals' claws.

If they managed to do it at all.

8 ()() 8 ()() 8

From upstairs, Charlie heard a loud rumble. The criminals had returned. Larry and the FBI had still not figured it out. With a trace of desperation Charlie wondered how much longer they would take and how many more attacks he would have to help plan.

The rumble grew louder and Charlie knew that they were going to burst in his dungeon again soon. He tried to mentally prepare, but, as always, he struggled.

The door burst open. Charlie sensed immediately that something was wrong. The faces of the two criminals were colored with a thick film of furious red.

"What was that supposed to be, cash cow?" the Captain blared while Nick as usual remained in the background. However, he too clenched his teeth. Running through the cell like an annoyed lion to vent his anger, the captain continued: "Huh? Tell me," – the captain didn't give a thought to the gag in Charlie's mouth – "what were you thinking with that?"

Disturbed and confused, Charlie looked at the Captain, who glared back with fury. "You wanna tell us you dunno nothing?" he jeered. "You didn't know you did anything wrong? Not with me, pal!"

He had grabbed Charlie's collar hard, as if he were about to strangle him. "Your little plan almost worked, little friend," the Captain hissed. "But the cops couldn't catch us. We've seen them, though, so we know they were here and that you've betrayed us. I don't know how you did it, but I know you've given them information. But not with me." He released his grip and bellowed again: "_Not with me!_ You won't get away with that again, got me? You got me?"

As if benumbed, Charlie nodded. The FBI knew. At least there was that. But how on earth Don could ever have let these guys escape? Why? And what would they do with him now? They couldn't know anything about Charlie's plan. But they suspected something. A bit too much.

After four more rounds through the room, the Captain had calmed down enough to give orders to his confederate. "Nick, you're gonna to punish him. I don't care if he dies. As long as it really hurts." And without a care for the sadistic expression in Nick's eyes, the Captain left the room.

8 ()() 8 ()() 8

"The jeweler on Sunset Avenue."

"Are you sure, Larry?" Don asked urgently.

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

Generally, Larry really didn't feel like joking, but neither could be bear the depressed mood that had dominated the past three weeks any longer. He could hardly believe it when Don had told him that the FBI had let the criminals escape. And Amita had disappeared into the bathroom for three hours after hearing the news. Then Larry resumed his calculations, even more taciturn and stubborn than before. This time it had to work; it just had to! Who could know how many chances were left for them? If they still had a chance at all…

"And when?"

"Monday, around six thirty in the evening."

"Thank you, guys. You're the best," Don said, relieved to have a starting point again, and reached for the phone.

"Startler."

"Commissioner? We know when and where the robbers will strike next."

"Is that you, Eppes? How do you think you know that?"

"The same formula as the last time."

"And what makes you think the criminals haven't changed their methods after that last incident?"

"If our theory is correct – and everything indicates that it is – then they haven't changed their method. They'll try the jeweler's 'Il Miglior D'Oro' on Sunset Avenue, Monday evening at half past six. I beg you, sir, please let my team get these guys. _We_ won't let them escape!"

Startler laughed unbelievingly. "Are you really so naïve or are you just acting like it, Eppes? You yourself admitted that it's probably your brother who is behind this organization. I cannot let your team lead the operation."

"But –"

"No 'but', Eppes. Be glad that I'm not investigating you. Thank you for intel, though; I'll call in a team to take care of it right away."

"But –"

"Goodbye, Agent Eppes – and I warn you, don't you dare get involved!"

The receiver clicked.

Foaming, Don went back into the garage. Larry was smart enough not to ask what was going on.


	11. The Last Robbery

Sorry for the delay. I won't take that long for the last two chapters, though, I promise.  
Hope you like it.

**Chapter 11: The Last Robbery**

The time until Monday dragged to eternity. And Monday itself seemed unending. Don desperately hoped that something would happen today. For if nothing happened, that would mean that something had gone wrong… that the robbers weren't using Charlie's formula anymore… and that would mean…

Don forbade himself from thinking about it. He likewise barred himself from talking to his father. He lacked the strength and desire to envision the terrible possibilities together with him. That was something he was very capable of doing on his own. Throughout this ordeal, they had often sat at the dining room table, each lagging his melancholy thoughts. Don knew that it would be better to distract himself. However, he was suspended from his job, his few non-work friends had to work and the Sudoku puzzles in the newspaper could not adequately push those troublesome thoughts from his mind.

Finally, it was Monday evening, a quarter past six. The urge to drive to Sunset Avenue became stronger and stronger. However, Don didn't want to leave his father alone now, and he had the assurance of knowing that the agent in charge, James O'Connagh, was a good man who had certainly taken everything necessary into account. O'Connagh had even made further inquiries of Larry. And Don by no means wanted to endanger the mission. Nevertheless, doubt still lurked in his mind. What if they let them escape again? If they got away again… or if they didn't strike at all...

Six thirty. It had to be time. Don imagined what was happening in the jewelry shop right now. They had to have caught them. Now… or at the latest now… Did they already have them?

The phone rang. His father's jerk let Don know that Alan had felt the same near-heart attack that he did. The younger Eppes answered the phone. "Eppes?"

"Don? This is James O'Connagh. We got them."

* * *

In minutes, the remaining Eppes clan was on its way to the FBI office. Don would have liked to leave his father at home, but knew that to try would be futile. Alan wanted to know what was happening. He wanted to see the men who, in all likelihood, had his son in their clutches. For, as of their conversation, O'Connagh had known nothing of Charlie's whereabouts.

Don heeded neither the many eyes upon him and nor the sporadic greetings being called after him as he and Alan headed to the interrogation room in which the perpetrators were being questioned. Finally, they arrived and peered through the mirrored glass into the room where a man about thirty years old with a remarkably ugly mustache was sitting. The criminals really had needed the masks.

Next to the captive sat a smug-looking man – certainly his lawyer – while a red-haired woman in her late thirties appeared to be leading the interrogation.

O'Connagh, having heard them enter, turned towards them. "Don! Mr. Eppes!" he called, briefly turning to Alan before he addressed his words to Don again. "How are you?"

"Splendid," Don answered shortly and mechanically, only to go on immediately: "Where's Charlie?"

O'Connagh's face closed. "He's not talking about that. He's not talking at all. His name's Nicolas Fleming. Apparently, he's more the henchman of the duo. The team's head, a guy called Frank Tylor, is in interrogation room D."

"Thanks for the information," Don said shortly before he left the room. He didn't even hear O'Connagh protest.

Followed closely by his father, he entered the observation area of interrogation room D. There sat a dark-bearded man whose self-confident smile made the anger inside Don boil. He had no lawyer. As if he felt that he was above such support. Hatred burned up in Don.

"Don, stay here!" his father called after him, but Don had already disappeared in the interrogation room.

Frank Tylor and the interrogating FBI agent Don believed was called Harrior turned towards him simultaneously, but he didn't let himself be deterred. Before he had a chance to think straight, he had already grabbed Taylor's collar and pulled him to his feet.

"Where is Charlie?" he hissed, his tone disquietingly menacing.

"Agent Eppes!" Harrior exclaimed, quite shocked.

Tylor, however, stayed cool. "Come on, hit me."

Don had no opportunity, however. O'Connagh grabbed him from behind and, with Harrior's help, managed to pull him away from Tylor.

Don wouldn't give in so easily, though. This bastard was hiding Charlie somewhere and he refused them the location so that he could gloat over their fear! He tried to pull away, but the two federal agents pushed him with leaden grip hard against the wall. Don didn't care, though. Right now, he felt no physical pain. He felt nothing but his anger, nourished by the fathomless anxiety for his little brother.

"Don, calm down. You're making everything worse," O'Connagh hissed in his ear, still pushing him against the wall. And after a few critical moments, Don knew that O'Connagh was right. He pulled away from the loosened grip of his two colleagues with a jerk, turned away from Tylor and left the interrogation room.

"What the hell were you doing?" O'Connagh barked at him outside. "You should be thankful that you're even here, so be so kind and behave!"

"It's alright, okay?" Don justified. "I'm already calm again."

"I hope so! If the commissioner finds out about that…"

"You're gonna tell him?"

For several seconds O'Connagh just looked at him. "No," he finally answered.

"Well, then let's finally listen to what this bastard is saying."

O'Connagh turned on the speaker. "They're still at the reading him his rights," he then declared.

"Very well," Don responded and reached for his mobile.

"Who you gonna call?" O'Connagh wanted to know, but Don didn't answer.

"Megan? It's me, Don. Try to find out as much as you can about Frank Tylor and Nicolas Fleming. – Frank Tylor and Nicolas Fleming, yeah. – Yeah, but they're not saying where he is. Not yet. So concentrate on locations where they could hold Charlie. – Okay. Thanks, Megan. See you."

He disconnected the call and realized O'Connagh was looking at him, his eye-brows raised. "What?"

"You know that this is our business."

"Well, it's always good to double check, right?"

"Know what, Don? You're incorrigible."

However, Alan suddenly interrupted them. "Can't you be quiet for once!"

Indeed, the conversation in the interrogation room became more interesting now. "Who was that mad-man? Eppes? Is that the brother?"

"Whose brother?" Harrior asked coldly.

"Well, the brother of this math-genius."

"What do you know about Professor Charles Eppes' whereabouts?"

"That's something I sure as hell won't tell you, fed."

"Talking like that will get you into trouble!"

Tylor laughed joylessly. "So? Maybe you haven't realized it, but I don't have a lot to lose. I'll talk to Agent Eppes and no-one else."

While beyond the glass Harrior tried to convince Tylor that that wasn't possible, Don looked at O'Connagh pleadingly. After a brief hesitation he nodded. "But don't mess it up," O'Connagh admonished as Don opened the door.

Harrior seemed puzzled, but then he saw O'Connagh nod through the open door and he left the room, though not without glancing sharply back at Tylor once more.

"Agent Eppes," Tylor greeted him with such a smug smirk that one inevitably wondered who exactly this man was. "I heard you're looking for your brother?"

"I have no time to play your little games."

"Oh, really? And how do you know that, Eppes? But you're right – you're really running out of time."

Don's face hardened. "What do you mean?"

It was obvious that Tylor was enjoying the situation. "But not so fast. I believe we each have something that our respective opponents appreciate. I have your brother – and you have the power to get me out of here."

"You're wrong," Don said tonelessly, ignoring the lump in his throat. "I don't have it."

"No?" Tylor said, his voice feigning regret. "Now _that's_ a pity. Then I'm afraid you probably won't find your brother again."

"We will find him!"

"But too late, unfortunately. When you'll have found him, there will only be pieces of him left."

Don stared at him. All the color had drained from his face. "What do you mean?"

"Well, in about an hour and a half a bomb will go off right next to your brother's left foot."

* * *

Charlie never had experienced such long … hours? Days? He couldn't tell. His cries filled the room. He just longed for it to come to an end, for it to stop… But Nick didn't stop, he went on. And on and on. Charlie already thought he would go insane with pain, forget himself, forget his friends. He no longer knew where he was, what he was doing, why all this was happening, when it would end…

And then it was over. Sometime, after uncountable eons, Charlie realized that Nick wasn't there anymore. He couldn't remember whether he had fallen unconscious, but fact was that Nick was gone. And Charlie felt such gratefulness that he was actually somewhere close to happy. This delusive happiness was soon gone, however, and all that remained was the unbelievable pain, until eventually fear returned on the shoulders of the threatening Captain, who this time demanded a certain – and that was the word he emphasized, _certain_ – calculation.

Charlie quickly concluded that he would stick to his formula. No matter how the robbers and murderers might threaten him – his best chance to survive was if Don and Larry could catch the perpetrators.

He didn't take long to determine the next target. "'Il Miglior D'Oro' on Sunset Avenue," he informed the two men when they once more strode into his cell. "Five days after the latest assault, at 18:30."

"So, Monday?"

The time when Charlie had known which date was written was long ago. "Maybe. The most recent was Wednesday?"

"It was. So in three days?"

Charlie couldn't help his answer from failing slightly unnerved. "If today is Friday." Why did they keep asking him these things? They should have known that he had no concept of time there. He didn't even know what time of day it was.

Slowly and threatening, the Captain advanced. "I advise you not to trick us, young fellow. You are completely sure that they won't catch us? Monday, eighteen thirty, 'Miglior D'Oro'?"

"Of course," Charlie answered coldly.

The cruel smile crept across the Captain's face again. "Very well," he said. "But you surely don't expect us to wholly trust you so soon now? No, that's really out of question, I'm afraid. Therefore, Nick has secured us a little precautionary measure." He made a brief gesture that worked on the Mustache like the order of a remote control. He shortly left the room, re-entering with a black box in his arm. The thought of what it could be made nausea rise in Charlie.

"This," the Captain began to explain, pointing at the instrument, "is our insurance. Nick is going to install it here Monday. It has a timed detonator. If we aren't back from our little trip at nine o'clock in the evening, you too will start a trip – across the Styx, as it were. So, are you really sure that we won't be taking a risk with your calculations?"

Charlie swallowed. He tried, though, not to show his panic. "Well, of course there's always a certain risk in-"

"You know exactly what I mean!" the Captain cut him off. "So?"

"I've chosen the best opportunity," Charlie answered.

With Mustache in tow, the Captain left the room without noticing the double meaning in Charlie's words.


	12. 3nd Numb3r 3

**Chapter 12: 3nd Numb3r 3**

And then – Charlie felt as if weeks had passed – Monday evening arrived. Nick came into his cell and installed the bomb. Again and again Charlie had wondered if he was truly doing the right thing. But then, what alternative did he have? He would have had to tell them that he planned to betray them. And he didn't know if he would survive the torture sessions that would certainly be his punishment.

Charlie knew that he was playing with fire by sending the criminals into a trap. And that was what he intended, for Charlie was certain that Don and his team would be waiting for the perps on Sunset Avenue. That they had been so very close the last time couldn't be coincidence – Larry must have cracked the formula. They would be caught. And then the world would be safe from these criminals. For Charlie, however, the ordeal would be far from over. For if the FBI didn't figure out his whereabouts quickly…

Charlie was tempted to push this thought aside, but it didn't help. He _had to _think about it, not only because the thoughts in his mind formed regardless of his wishes, but also because he needed a plan in event that Don didn't find him in time… But how on earth could he free himself? He had been sitting there for an eternity. While he no longer had the challenge of his captors' presence, he was still bound and hurt on a chair in a locked room. His situation didn't give him a lot to work with.

The bomb was installed. Soon, Nick would leave the room, and with him Charlie's last opportunity to call off his decision. This was his last chance… But now, the whole thing had to end at last. One way or another.

* * *

"A bomb," Don repeated tonelessly. That couldn't be true. That _mustn't_ be true! They had come so far! _So far!_ They had found out that Charlie was still alive, had found out that these criminals were holding him, had tracked them down, had caught them – and now Charlie would die in spite of it all? That wasn't possible!

"Where is he?" Don urged. This time he was calm. He had no power left to let loose on Tylor. He was using every last scrap of energy to stand, though still leaning heavily on the table.

"Where is Charlie?"

"On a chair. In a room," the meaninglessly laconic answer was. "Tied up," Tylor added with mock helpfulness. "His chances to rescue himself are therefore imaginably slim. Thus it would be appropriate to listen to my proposal."

He waited for an answer, so Don gave it to him, irritably. "So, come on, go ahead!"

"It's very simple. You let me and my friend go and I tell you where your brother is."

Both filled with hatred, they stared in each other's eyes. Don couldn't cave in to the demand, and he didn't want to either. But which alternative was there to rescue Charlie? …Megan!

"I'm gonna think about it," Don said shortly and immediately left the room with a stunned Tylor staring at his back.

Outside, O'Connagh was already waiting for him. "Don, you know that you can't –"

"Yeah, I know." He glanced at his father. No doubt, Alan didn't understand why Don hadn't caved in immediately to Tylor's demand. Don would explain it to him later, though; there was no time now. He already pulled out his mobile. "Megan? What did you find out?"

"This Nicolas Fleming has already done time for larceny; Tylor is unknown, until now. Neither of them has family –"

"Do they have a house somewhere? A flat? A cabin?"

"Fleming rented some kind of garage a year ago."

Don thought about it briefly until he answered. "No… no, I don't think so. Tylor said Charlie was in a room. I think he would have expressed it in another way if it was this garage. Anything else?"

"We've spoken to an ex-girlfrend of Frank Tylor's on the phone. She told us something about a cabin, somewhere in the mountains."

"That fits! That must be it! Where exactly is it?"

"His girlfriend couldn't give us a detailed description, but we know the direction. What do you intend to do, Don?"

"What do you think? I'm gonna get Charlie out of there."

"We'll come with you. Meet downstairs." And before Don could say another word, she had hung up.

Don stepped to leave the room, but O'Connagh held him back. "Where are you going, Don?"

"I believe he's in a cabin in the mountains. We're gonna go there."

"Very well," Alan surprisingly jumped in.

"No…" Don started, but O'Connagh interrupted him: "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!"

"Don, time's running against us. If Charlie isn't in that cabin –"

"But he is there! What do you think I should do, huh? I _can't_ play Tylor's game with him! And do you really think he would tell us the truth in time?"

"You can still pretend that you'd accept his demands."

"Do what you want to do. But I'm gonna head for this cabin now. As you said, time's running out." He turned towards his father. "And you stay –"

"Not here, I guarantee you! I won't sit around here doing nothing, Don!"

* * *

Far too much later they were on their way into the mountains. They had only a little more than half an hour left, and although the two vehicles were driving with lights flashing, Don knew that it was going to be close, _very_ close. They had called in a team of bomb disposal experts on their way. It'd be risky, for they didn't know exactly when and where the bomb would go off.

The minutes were running by much too fast.

"Drive faster!" Alan urged, but only for the sake of saying something. Don was already driving much too fast for the winding mountain road. Thank God there was no traffic, for if somebody had come towards them, they would have likely not survived.

Twenty minutes left.

"I think we're past it!" Don called in desperation, staring at the navigation system.

"Then turn around!" his father shouted at him, though only an instant later, he regretted it. "I'm sorry, Don", he mumbled confused, "I know you're doing your best."

Don was silent. He was too concentrated on the road. He had already reversed and his team's vehicle did the same, with screeching tires. And then Don saw it. A little turnoff to the right, hardly noticeable between the bushes. He raced into it and the other car followed them.

And there – finally – they saw a small house in front of them. Outside stood a dark truck. Don stilled the vehicle with protesting tires and jumped out. "You stay in the car!" he called at his dad. And then it happened.

A deafening bang. A flare of light. A blast wave pushing Don to the ground. Flames blazing up high in the dark night.

The bomb had exploded. They were too late.


	13. Over

So... here we go with the final chapter. I'm sorry for the shortness. And I'm sorry for the sudden ending. I think I told you at the beginning that I'm not too proud of this story.  
Well, anyway. Hope you like it.  
PS: And thanks a lot for your reviews! And another thanks to my beta Medraut!

**Chapter 13: Over**

Time came to a halt.

The world stopped turning, thrown out of orbit.

Silence.

Whether it was caused by the after-effect of the detonation or by the incomprehensible message it carried, Don couldn't tell.

It was over. They had come too late. They couldn't save Charlie.

Five minutes, just five minutes. If they had arrived just five minutes earlier, Charlie would still be alive, they would have rescued him, Don would be holding him in his arms, crying with him, laughing with him… Maybe it had been just the few minutes Don had spent trying to prevent his father from joining them, or that they had lost their way… or that they had lost because Don hadn't made the deal with Tylor…

It was impossible! Charlie couldn't be dead! He just _couldn't!_ Not now, not so suddenly, not after all they had done!

While the fire caused by the explosion was licking up high at the remains of the house, the wish Charlie was still alive grew so strong inside Don that it became an unreal hope. "Charlie!" he roared over the tingling of the flames, knowing at the same time that his brother would never hear him again, never answer him.

"Charlie!" Don paced up and down, and started to round the house, shaking off the weakness that tried to overwhelm him. His father was still sitting in the car, unable to do so much as move. "Charlie!" Don had laid his hands at his mouth and roared his pain out in the mountains, into the world, into another world…

"Charlie!"

There! Don paused. He thought he had heard something. His head jerked around and far away, he saw his team stand in the glow of the flames. They were staring at the burning house, stunned with horror. None of them had even uttered a single sound. Where had this sound come from then? From inside his mind? From the other world? Or still from somewhere around him…?

"Charlie!"

"Don…"

This time, there was no doubt. Somebody was calling him, calling his name! The voice sounded weak, deathly feeble, but still, still there was this familiar tone…

"Charlie?"

This time, it was real hope that was rising inside Don, no phantasm anymore. Faster and faster, he was running towards the back of the house, towards the direction where the voice had come from. _Please, don't let me have imagined it!_

"Charlie! Where are you?"

"Here," the feeble voice answered. It was an answer, a real answer! And the answer came in Charlie's voice!

"Charlie!" Don called for another time, and relief, inexpressibly warming, cooling, comforting relief began cautiously to spread in his tensed body. And then he saw him.

Charlie was lying on the ground and tried to get up in a sitting position, his face grimacing with pain.

"Charlie," Don said for a last time before his voice died. A moment later he knelt beside his little brother on the ground and hugged him tightly, held him safely in his arms.

He didn't know what he should do or say. All possible utterances seemed so unbelievingly trivial to him. Only one thing mattered: Charlie was alive. As impossible as it seemed, he was alive!

"How on earth did you get out of there?"

It wasn't quite easy for Charlie to understand the words through Don's tears. It was even harder, though, to give Don an answer right now. The hardest thing, however, was to keep silent. He had to explain.

"Nick has left his torture things in the room where they had been holding me," Charlie mumbled, slightly coughing. His voice sounded frail. "They were off behind me. He wanted to take them away when they left, I saw it in his gaze. But they were late. With the stuff I could tear through the restraints and open the lock. Took some time, of course. Then I got out, through the back door, just when the bomb went off. I didn't want to help them, Don!" Charlie sounded desperate. "I didn't want to help them! They forced me to; I couldn't do anything! I wanted you to catch them… and you _did _catch them, right? I knew it. I always knew it. I knew that you and Larry… I knew that you wouldn't let me down…"

"Easy, buddy," Don soothed him. "You did nothing wrong. Nothing. You were great."

He would have loved to stay sitting there for hours, his little brother in arms. He couldn't, though. "Come. Dad's here too."

He pulled Charlie to his feet and helped him around the house. His brother could barely stand, so Don was more carrying than supporting. As they got closer to their father in the glare of the fire, Don noticed in shock how terrible Charlie looked. He was little more than a skeleton, his cheeks were cavernous, his T-shirt was hung in rags. Every square inch of skin that was exposed he couldn't see; it was red with blood, clotted and fresh; the skin was grazed. He couldn't see the tiniest part that didn't have injury.

They would drive him immediately to the hospital. And there the doctors would take care of him. So would he. Everything was going to be alright. They would help Charlie, in every possible way. If they could stick together, they was no reason why they shouldn't be able to fix this. Don knew that Charlie's trip through hell was by no means over yet, but he knew that his brother would reach the end. He had proved that he was strong enough. He would make it. No doubt.

"We're almost there," Don mumbled. Close to the front corner of the cabin, when he was certain to be heard, Don called again. "Dad! Dad, I've got him! I've found him! He's alive!" Don turned towards Charlie again. "We've almost made it… only a few yards."

When they turned around the corner of the house, they couldn't go on, though. Alan Eppes came storming towards them, but stopped abruptly at the sight of both of his sons. "Charlie," he whispered, as tears slid down his cheeks.

And then, one point six one eight seconds later, the three of them were lying in each others' arms. The world was all right again.

THE END.


End file.
